


Trust Me and Take My Hand. When the Lights Go Out, You Will Understand

by HellNHighHeels



Series: Your heart beats faster when it's with mine [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Post-Episode: s07e05 The Angels Take Manhattan, Sexual Content, young River
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 10:22:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2769497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HellNHighHeels/pseuds/HellNHighHeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We have all night." Teeth scrape across her collarbone, nipping and kissing a hot trail across her chest. "And by the end of it," he pauses over the soft part of her neck, tongue darting out to flick across the hollow, "I’m going to have you screaming."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust Me and Take My Hand. When the Lights Go Out, You Will Understand

**Author's Note:**

> Story title from Pain by Three Days Grace
> 
> Series title from Mescaline by Robert Francis

He comes here often, even after they're gone. He waters plants and fluffs cushions, pretending they're only at work or that they'll be home soon and he can say, _"Come along Ponds!"_ and off they'll go to have an adventure.

He imagines he'll do the same with Stormcage after he loses River, too. That he'll pace around her empty cell, mocking her books and talking to himself like the lonely madman he is. He'll curl up in her empty cot, immersing himself in the spicy essence that is River. But that day hasn't found him yet. He still has some time with her. 

For now, he only comes to the house he bought them, the one with the blue door and red car waiting out front and sparkling lights in the back garden. He only comes _after_. He doesn't want to risk running into them, which is odd, really, not wanting to see someone you don't want to be without. But he doesn't think he could bear to look at Amy now, not after seeing those desperate, frightened tears run down her cheeks. The image burdens him with memories of his other Pond girl, brave enough to smile and flirt even though tears were streaming down her face and a computer counted down her seconds.

Magnificent, his Ponds, doing anything to be with the ones they love, tearing apart universes and defying paradoxes and even resurrecting the dead, armed with nothing but raw determination. They are, were, always will be, so much better and stronger than he ever could.

It's only been days since he materialized and whisked them off to Manhattan, never to return again. The house still looks lived in, taunting him with all the things they could have had if only he had just left them be. There’s a tea cup resting in the sink, a lazily written reminder to 'pick up more milk' hanging on the fridge, and a folded basket of laundry waiting by the stairs. Their story doesn't seem finished, and he supposes it isn't, just the chapters with him. 

The silence around him is broken by the pitter patter of feet on the second floor. At first his instinct is to run, that he must have gotten the timing wrong, that he's too early. But there's something tugging at his gut, drawing him up toward the noise, and before he knows it, his feet are climbing the stairs. The door to the guest room is ajar and inside, standing by the window, is-

"River," he says a bit breathless. For a moment he thinks it's his River, but then she whips around, startled by his sudden presence.

"Doctor!" she blurts, wiping hastily at her cheeks. "What are you doing here?" 

An outside light casts an eerie glow onto the face of his wife, who isn't his wife yet, and he deflates. Judging by the hair, this version is still in university. Her curls are lighter, bouncier, and her eyes are so much younger than the ones that told him " _Don't travel alone,_ " and yet refused to come with him.   
  
"I, uh, I came to see Amy," he lies. "But they must be out."

She nods, satisfied, and turns back to stare out the window. He takes it as permission to glide into the room, sliding up next to her to see what she finds so interesting out there. There's nothing of consequence, just low hanging fog, coating the lawn like a blanket and blurring the street lights. He finds her reflection infinitely more interesting so he takes advantage of it, drinking in her features without her knowledge. 

She's been crying.

Not that she would ever tell him or let him see, but he can spot the signs. He's had centuries to figure out her tricks and trademarks. And she's too young to know her glossy eyes and pink cheeks show him she's been crying hot, angry tears and that her too bright smile tells him there's something she doesn't want him to know.

He thought her older self left after New York because she wanted to grieve in peace, forever wanting to hide the damage. But maybe he was wrong. Maybe she knew this was waiting for him, a younger version of her that needed him more than he needed her older self. For once, he won't be selfish. He's going to be there for her now the way he should have been after... _"River, they were your parents. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”_

_“It doesn't matter."_

_"Of course it matters.”_

  
"Why are you here?" he asks.

"This is my bedroom," she offers, evasive and stubborn as ever. "I'm allowed to be here."

To an outsider it was just a second bedroom, but to Amy and Rory it had always belonged to River, their not quite human daughter and childhood friend. He wonders how many times she came here alone. How many everyday shopping trips did she make with Amy or football matches did she watch with Rory? How many Christmas eves were spent laughing over a bottle of wine and how many nights turned into mornings while they sat chatting in the garden? How much time had they had? Not enough, he's sure. It isn't fair that he has so much while they have so little. He wishes he could give them his years, scatter his time among the countless he has hurt and lost. All of them, every single one, all he ever wanted to do was give them everything. And no one deserved that more than River. 

His fingers itch to touch her, to reach out and grab her hand, to pull her to him and kiss the wrist that hasn't been broken yet. But he resists, instead, jokingly asking, "Luna University getting a bit much for you?"

She scoffs, "Hardly."

"Then what?"

Letting out a long sigh, she answers, "I needed to talk to Amy." She always seeks Amy out when she wants comfort. Never him. He tells himself it's just a leftover habit from Mels, that in a strange, backward way, it’s how she makes up for lost time, a little girl craving a mothers touch. "I was thinking about Berlin." She continues. "About when I-"

"When you almost burnt yourself out to bring me back to life. Yes, I remember." _How could he forget?_

"You're skipping over the part where I killed you first."

"Well yeah, but I got a kiss out of it, didn't I? What a way to go. Death by snogging."

"Don't belittle it, Doctor. It was the worst day of my life."

"Shame. It's one of my favorites."

She looks up at him, lips parted and words dancing on the tip of her tongue. But rather than speak them, she snaps her mouth shut and averts her gaze. Even this early on she hides the true depth of her pain from him. Always so in control, locking away her emotions and grief for _later_. 

"What had you thinking about Berlin?" he asks, determined to make her talk to him at least this once.

"I'm doing my dissertation on you," she offers like that should be enough to answer his question. But he's old and slow, so he prompts her.

"And?"

Letting out an exasperated sigh, she answers, "And I came across something I didn't want to." That could mean any number of things. His past is littered with unsavory events and days that didn't get happy endings. But River would already know about those. The Silence made sure of that.

"You'll have to be more specific."

"I'm not sure that I should." Her eyes flick back to his. "Spoilers and all that."

 It's been so long now he doesn't think there are many spoilers left for him. He tries to hide the ache in his chest that thought brings as he says, "Try me."

It's quiet for a while, and where his younger self would have grown impatient and thrown more questions at her, now he only waits. Quiet breathing the only sound between them until she finally says, "Lake Silencio," exhaling the words like simply saying them takes a physical toll on her. "It's me, isn't it? In the astronaut suit." It isn't really a question, but it's not resignation either. 

He can't bring himself to say yes, to watch the shadow of grief darken her features, so instead he asks, "Do you honestly think you would ever hurt me, River?"

"I might not have a choice," she counters. His brave girl. She's so clever, too clever. 

"You always a choice?" he tells her. "No force, come hell or high water, could make you do something you didn't want to."

_"Let me do this!" "If you die here it'll mean I never met you!"_

_"This is River Song, back in her cell."_

_"She dove off a building." "Don't worry, she does that."_

_"You might want to find something to hang onto."_

 

"Believe me," a small smile tugs at his lips, "I've seen it."

"But it's fixed. I read all about-"

"Oh River," he quiets her. "Even fixed points can be rewritten." _Rule one_. 

She smiles a little and he can see a flicker of hope in her eyes. The same one he saw on top of a pyramid and outside Amy's wedding and even in a library. She has all of that to come. 

The urge to touch her overwhelms him, hand lifting to cup her cheek. She closes her eyes, nuzzling into his palm like she always does. A ball of euphoria swells in his chest because some things never change. Even through their tangled mess of a life together, she has always been River. Free and flirty and forever craving the feel of his skin against hers, be it a kiss, their fingers entwined, or a bop on the nose. 

He closes the distance between them, leaning in to press his lips against hers. She hums, hands slipping under his coat to rest over his hearts. Being near her has always been as easy as reading his favorite book and as thrilling as spiraling through the vortex, whizzing and buzzing and twirling about, not knowing where you're going but loving the familiarity of the unknown. He kisses her with everything that he has, pouring love and trust and apologies and passion into her so she knows that everything he is belongs to her.

He wonders if it's cruel, to atone for his sins on this younger version, to dote on her and make her feel loved and cherished, like his arms are the safest place in the universe and she can count on him for anything. He doesn't let her think for a moment a day will come when he won't be able to catch her, when he won't trust her with everything. It's not fair to make up for the follies of a younger man with a version of her that's so young and impressionable. Maybe it's wrong to give her hope. But if it makes her smile, how could such a thing ever not be right? He can't bear to see that look of anguish on her face. He's seen her heartbroken more than enough for this lifetime.

She should hate him, should run as far away from his little blue box as she can. She has so many reasons. But she never will. He tied to make the decision for her, to run from her, to push her away. But there is no rewriting time, not when River Song is involved. Not when their love is woven so thoroughly across time and space. Not when the pull of it is stronger than the gravity of black holes and it shines brighter than supernovas.

She kisses him slow and unsure, mind guarded like she'll snap at any moment. He wants to tear down her walls, show her she can let go, that he'll catch her. He always catches her. 

He deepens the kiss, tongue entwining with hers and hands sliding down her back, pressing her into him. Her arms wrap around his neck, body molding to his and moaning into his mouth. The sound settles in his abdomen, sparking the first embers of an inferno. He can feel every curve, lower back arching beneath his palms, breasts pressing into his chest, lips sliding against his own. She's everywhere, but he wants more. Wandering hands work their way south to cup her bum, dragging her impossibly closer. She groans, nails digging into his flesh at the sudden, delicious friction. Encouraged by her wanton noises, one hand begins to ascend up her side, tickling the exposed skin of her hip, slipping beneath her shirt to caress up her ribs, and finally cupping her breast. She melts into the pressure like it's the first and last time he'll ever touch her there. He squeezes a little tighter, silently promising that it won't be the last. A whimper escapes her and he wonders if, for her, it is the first time he's touched her this way. 

His mouth breaks away from hers, kissing down her jaw and neck and nipping at the lobe of her ear. Clutching at his shoulders, she hisses. "Doctor," rolling off her tongue like a warning. He doesn't listen, palming her breast in that rough way she likes and teeth grazing over her pulse point. "This isn't a good idea," she manages through a haze of desire. 

"You won't hurt me, River," he assures, dropping kisses like promises onto delicate flesh.

"I could," she protests. "If I let my guard down." Undeterred, he continues his work on her neck, free hand roaming over her body until it finds her neglected breast. It pebbles in his palm instantly, and he thinks he would gladly die by her hand if it meant he could hold those same fingers that pulled the trigger.

"It's a risk I'm willing to take." 

She tenses at that, pushing him away defiantly. "I'm not."

That's a first, a River that doesn't trust herself, a River that isn't confident. He expected her to be raw and wild. He expected her lips to be bruising and her affection to come in the form of sloppy kisses, bite marks, and wandering hands. He expected a passion she couldn't control and didn't fully understand to spill out of her like wildfire, scorching his skin and leaving his body in glorious ruin. 

He hadn't expected her to be cautious, haunted by demons from a former life and very much still the little girl afraid of the spaceman. Perhaps the River he knows doesn't just fall out of the sky the way she's always leaping off of rooftops. Maybe she has to be coaxed out from behind heavily fortified walls.

"Do you trust me, River?" 

Her brow furrows at the sudden question. "Of course," she spits, offended that he would even ask. "But that's not what this is about."

He takes her face in his hands, looking through her eyes and into her soul so she knows what he's about to say is true. "I trust you, too." _With everything_. 

When he was young and undeserving, he used to think her reckless for putting her life in his hands time and time again.  Such blind trust terrified him. When he looks at her now, he sees what she must have seen back then. Fear: of getting hurt, of hurting others.

"You're so much stronger than you think. Please, let me prove it to you." He needs to show her that her trust in him is justified, that no one knows her better or loves her fiercer than him. Nothing compares to them, not gods or lovers or heroes in fairytales. No living thing in the universe even comes close.

She must sense his desperation because she doesn't stop him when he beings undoing the buttons of her shirt. Her eyes are locked onto him, hyper aware of his every movement as he strips her. He matches her intensity, eyes never leaving her face, studying her for any sign of hesitation. All he sees is trust and the slow burn of lust crackling across her skin. Nervous excitement cascades off her like a bird preparing for first flight or a thunderstorm before the first drop of rain.  
  
"I'm going to prove to you that you can trust yourself," he says softly as her shirt puddles on the floor. He's going to shed her of her doubts and insecurities, strip her fears from her like layers of clothing until it's his River standing before him. He'll usher forth the confident woman whose capabilities know no bounds and who carries an infinite well of strength inside her. He'll make ashes of the timid woman before him so _his_ River can rise like a Phoenix. He'll break her of her conditioning, sever the Silence's hold on her one way or another. He'll put his life, along with his hearts, in her hands.   
  
Her bra comes next, slipping off her shoulders to reveal her perfect chest. The sight makes his mouth water, tongue longing to rake over that sensitive skin and taste its sweetness. He resists the urge, instead running his fingers down the smooth pane of her stomach, the muscles of her abdomen twitching in anticipation as he toys with the top of her jeans. Sinking to his knees before her, his eyes follow the curve of her waist and hips before settling on the denim that's hiding the rest of her golden skin. He places a chaste kiss to her belly button while his fingers make short work of her jeans and underwear. 

They join her shirt on the floor and he pauses, unable to do anything but marvel at the sight of her, naked and watching him like a lifeline. Getting to his feet, he guides her toward the bed. The backs of her knees hit the edge and she sits obediently.

Watching.

Waiting.

He can feel her eyes on him, intense and burning as he shrugs off his coat and suspenders before crawling onto the bed next to her. "Put your hands here," he instructs, tapping the headboard and breaking the silence with a husky voice.

"What am I doing?" The words tumble out of her mouth, breathy and curious.

"As you're told," he answers, low and full of quiet authority. She obeys, lying flat on her back and placing her hands above her head. Predatory eyes are fixed on his hands, watching as he carefully removes his bow tie and wraps it around her wrists until she's secured to the headboard.

It's only a simple strip of silk. It means nothing to her now, his wife that isn't his wife yet, but one day it will mean everything. It's a symbol of trust and love, always and completely. It is a promise to forgive and that the other will never be forgotten. It is binding and forever and it's theirs. 

He wonders if this moment is what she'll think about every time she straightens his bow tie. He hopes so. He hopes that when he's young and foolish, she will only have to look at his bow tie to be reminded of her husband, the man who adores and loves and worships her in ways no one else ever could. 

"I always knew you'd be the kinky type." She smirks, eyebrows waggling

"You didn't trust yourself not to hurt me. I'm going to show you that even when you lose control, you're still you. You're free. They hold no power over you anymore."

"And you needed to tie me down to do that, did you?"

He smirks. "Are you complaining?"

"Just observing," she quips, making him chuckle. She doesn't know it yet, but he is about to teach her new things about herself, touch her in ways she doesn't even know she likes yet. He will liberate her, break her conditioning, set her ablaze with desire. But first, he's going to kindle that fire with deliberate, maddening slowness.

His touch is soft, ghosting down her arms and memorizing the way her muscles flex beneath her creamy flesh. Fingers follow the path of her collar bone, down her sternum and back up her sides, barely brushing the sides of her breasts. She shivers against the feather light pressure, goose bumps spreading across her chest.

If he thought she was controlled when older, she's even better now. Only slightly arching into the touch that would have her older self shamelessly grinding into him. Where one day she will curse and beg and demand, now she hardly even moans at his ministrations. She is the picture of control, a fortress. All that training is still fresh on the surface, a barrier from all those humany emotions that make you weak and needy and wanton.

Large hands kneed and pinch at her breasts, teasing her with every twist and trick he knows will make her body respond. Still her resolve holds, so he travels lower, fingertips dancing over hip bones and swirling Gallifreyan love notes into her skin.

"Doctor," she whispers quietly, as if the sound of her voice will shatter the walls around them. Their eyes meet and he lifts a palm to cup her cheek, lips brushing against hers, tender and chaste. "Please." Her breath is a quiet plea ghosting over his mouth. It's only then that he notices her squirming, thighs pressed tight together in search of friction. "Touch me. Please." 

Her words flood him with desire, the darkness of his pupils reflected in her own. The hand on her cheek slides down to the nape of her neck, tugging lightly on her hair until she reveals her neck to him and his hot mouth can plant wet kisses on her neck and behind her ear. His other hand travels down her body, dancing over her stomach and making her squirm. He stalls near her hip bones, making tiny circles with the pads of his fingers.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers into her skin. "Do you know when you're the most beautiful?" His fingers continue their journey downwards, barely touching her and yet she quivers like he's dragging hot coals across her already flushed skin. "When your body clenches around me and my name is on your lips." Two fingers slide easily over her wet entrance and she sucks in a breath through her teeth. "Look at me, River." She obeys, opening her eyes to find his own locked onto her, studying her, taking in every expression.  Her eyes are dark and her cheeks are flushed. Gone is the troubled girl he found standing by a window, forgotten are the fears and sorrows that brought her here.

She bucks impatiently against his fingers and he obeys her request, letting one finger slip ever so slightly into her. She is silky and warm and welcoming and he drops his forehead to hers, a low growl rumbling in his throat. 

A half smile curls up her cheek at his blatant arousal. "Want you," she whispers, rotating her hips in encouragement.

"Love you," he replies, and her breath hitches at the admission, body clenching around him, drawing him in and begging for more. He obliges, eternally giving her what she wants, a slave to her every whim. Planets and stars and time and space, she has but to ask and they would be hers. He pumps his fingers, curling just right. She squirms against him because the slow and steady pace of his fingers isn't enough. He knows. So he gives her more than what she wants; he gives her what she needs, even if she doesn't know she needs it yet.

"You're so close, River," he purrs, his voice always his most powerful weapon. "I can feel you. Right on the brink." Her whole body tenses, teetering on the edge of release, but she says nothing. No moans, no cries of pleasure, no _'oh god, sweetie, yesyes **yes**_!'

He'll remedy that.

Just as her body begins to contract, he pulls away, fingers abandoning their work between her thighs, leaving her empty and clutching at nothing. Beneath him she groans at the loss, every nerve ending tingling with the promise of orgasm and the frustration of denial. Writhing and squirming, she is the very picture of wantonness. But she's still holding back. 

"Not yet." He whispers into her breasts, capturing a nipple in his mouth. Her only response is a whimper as he continues to kiss and nibble across her body. She likes it when he bites her. She likes his touches a little rough because with each other they don't have to wear a mask. When they are together like this there are no walls, no spoilers, no conditioning. There is only them and the love they share. Their passion and need for one another made manifest by the pounding of their hearts and cries of encouragement in a language of the long dead. 

These moments are theirs, and nothing, not even time, can take it from them. 

"We have all night." Teeth scrape across her collarbone, nipping and kissing a hot trail across her chest. "And by the end of it," he pauses over the soft part of her neck, tongue darting out to flick across the hollow, "I’m going to have you screaming."

Her hips buck of their own volition and he nibbles his way across her jaw, nipping at the sensitive flesh of her neck. "Would you like that?" He knows his words are sending wave after wave of heat to her abdomen, but his voice is sweet as honey and he's looking at her with nothing but care. She is precious and adored and he tells her so with his eyes, willing her to comprehend everything she means to him.

"Yes," his bad girl breathes, eyes locked onto his, dark pools of green swimming with lust and wonder and curiosity. He continues his work on her, teasing his way down her body. Everything is painfully slow, and he can tell by her greedy little noises that he's driving her mad. "Do you want me to beg?" 

Yes. Absolutely and unequivocally, _yes_. He wants her to beg and scream and curse his name until that's the only sound echoing off these walls.

"I want you to lose control. Can you do that for me, River?" He looks up at her from between her thighs, watching her chest rise and fall to the rhythm of his voice. "Forget about the past and the future and everything else. There's only this room and the way I'm touching you and the way it makes you feel.” His tongue flicks out over her sensitive core, sending her body into spasms.  “I want you to come apart in my hands. In the future, when you touch yourself, I want you to think about this night. I want you to remember the moment I made you come so hard you screamed." A throaty moan is her only audible response. She is transfixed by him, lost in a haze of desire and need.

He works his thumb over her swollen bundle, slowly, gently. She isn't an expert on Gallifreyan yet, but she can make out some of the words he's swirling into her. Filthy, erotic words that make her twitch in anticipation, hands tugging at their binds, hips lifting toward him, anything to increase the pressure, anything to get more. She swallows hard, wanting to let go, but still hesitating, afraid to clear her mind. “It feels so _good_ ,”

"I know it does, love," he soothes, letting her know he'll take care of her. He knows her body like his favorite song, every line and melody imprinted onto his very soul. He’ll leave his mark on her, too, so scalding and sensuous that no one else could compare. No one will be good enough, only him and the way he makes her shiver.

She moans again, louder this time but still not enough. He withdraws his fingers again, and she nearly sobs at the loss, throwing her head back and panting “Are you trying to kill me?”

“I’m proving a point," he answers, hands caressing down her legs, feeling the tautness of her frame and electricity coursing through her body.

“By punishing me?” She practically growls in frustration.

“Is that what you want?” he responds, and all she can do is whimper. She’s so close he doesn’t even need his hands anymore, wound so tight the right words would probably send her over the edge. But where’s the fun in that? 

"Open your eyes, River." He blows cool air over her oversensitive bundle, the action sending her body into convulsions. "I want you to see." He wants her to think of this moment every time she looks at his mouth. He wants the way his tongue darts out to moisten his lips to make her shiver. He wants to control her breathing with the cadence of his voice. He wants to make sure that while he is delivering eloquent speeches, her hearts will be thundering in her chest. Her breaths will be made uneven, not from running or danger or imminent death, but because of his lips and mouth and tongue their ability to make her shatter in his arms.

Their eyes meet and hers instantly darken at the sight of him between her legs. She watches him with hungry eyes as he places a kiss to each thigh before, finally, _finally_ , pressing his mouth to her sex. She exhales his name, and it sounds like lust and pleasure and _please_. Her eyes never break from his as he buries his face in her. She shakes and she moans and she rocks her hips into him, but she never looks away, memorizing every curl of his lips and flick of his tongue.

He means to go slow, to tease and draw out her pleasure, to pluck noises from her like a musician does an instrument, controlling her gasps and moans until they fill the room like a symphony. But the taste of her is too good, the feel of her too enticing, and he can’t help but groan his approval. The noise rumbles through her core, eyes fluttering shut at the new vibrations. She moans a little louder, inching closer to bliss. But he won't let her come until she loses control. He wants her writhing. He wants praises and curses and _please_ and " _don'tstopdontstop_ " tumbling out of her mouth faster than her tongue can form. A new wave of wetness bursts across his tongue and she’s trembling and contracting and building and-

He rips his mouth away and she gasps at the loss, raging fire melding back to a slow simmer.  "Stop. Doing. That." River grunts angrily, head dropping back onto the bed.

"I told you." He sucks hard on her thigh and moves his fingers back to circle gently over her impossibly sensitive bundle of nerves, hips twitching at the feather light touch. "We have all night." His hot breath brings delicious goose bumps to her skin as his fingers set a new, slower pace around her clit.

“Well when you said you wanted me to scream, I didn’t think annoying me was what you had in min-“

He silences her with the pressure of his tongue, flat and dragging across her sensitive core. Instantly her legs wrap around his head, preventing him from pulling away, and _there's_ his River, taking what she wants.  He doubles his efforts, mouth relentlessly working over her and fingers probing and curling until her moans and pants blend into one hungry noise. It doesn’t take long before her hips are rising off the bed to meet him and her body is shaking and coiling tighter and tighter and suddenly she _screams_ so loud her throat cracks around the sound. He doesn’t stop or give her time to recover, he continues with his hard, fast pace and she only tightens her grip around his face, grinding into him. She doesn’t even have time to come down before she’s spiraling off again. He is rewarded with another strangled scream, a wicked sound he knows all too well. It radiates through his body, settling in his core and stoking the embers of an already flaming heat.

Her shouts fade into choked moans and strangled grunts as she comes back down, body still shaking and panting. Trembling thighs release their death grip as she looks at him, eyes black and, heaven help him, she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. No matter how many times he sees her or how many ways she lets him touch her, the sight of her always robs him of breath. He must have done something right along the way to deserve her in his life.

He crawls back up her body, peppering her with kisses along the way. It’s not until she begins unbuttoning his shirt that he realizes she's wiggled free of the silk confines. Next time he’ll have to use something sturdier, handcuffs maybe. Her tiny, clever hands are capable of anything, disarming bombs, drying tears, stitching up wounds, and, especially, driving him to distraction.

Shaking hands rid him of his belt and begin work on his trousers, dexterous and quick even in her rattled haste. This is why he tied her up, not for his protection like she thinks, but to keep her from distracting him before he could show her what he wanted. That nothing and no one comes between River Song and what she wants, not steel bars, not The Silence, not even him. The universe never stood a chance against her, and this is proof. She has been stripped bare of her control, lust claiming her senses and clouding her mind. She held his face locked between her powerful thighs, completely at her mercy, and still she didn’t, would never, could never, hurt him.

He trusts her more than anyone else in the universe, and todays the day she learns to trust herself.

He sits up on his knees to rid himself of his trousers and she follows after, licking and sucking across his stomach. Greedy and demanding as she claws at his skin, she feels much more like the young, reckless woman he expected. He takes pleasure in knowing he helped make her this way, that she'll be confident and fearless, that she’ll writhe and scream, lose control and fall apart in his hands all because of this day: the day he tore down her walls with little more than a bow tie and his tongue. From this day on, she will crave his touch, beg and want and need it as badly as he needs hers.

He loves her in all her forms, young and readily showing her fascination with the universe, older when she’s patient and understanding, and that perfect middle ground where she’s experienced enough to know what they mean to one another but still holds that wild twinkle in her eyes. All he wants is her, the only family he has left. Not someone else. A stranger where his Ponds should be would only feel empty and wrong. After Duril- after his luck and time with River run out, he's finished. He'll find a nice quiet place to keep to himself. Remembering the low hanging fog clinging to trees and blurring street lights, he thinks, maybe the sky would be nice. The lonely god alone on his clouds with only the moon to mourn him. 

She nips at his hipbones, getting his attention. “Are you still with me, Doctor?”

“Always,” he breathes, pressing her back down onto the bed and lying on top of her. His arousal presses against her thigh and she wraps her legs around him in encouragement. He accepts, nudging at her entrance and making her moan.

“Now you’re just being mean.”

“Maybe a little," he mouths into her neck.

“I’ll remember that for next time,” she breathes into his ear. "When I tie _you_ up.”

A surplus of images flood his mind, imagination running wild with all the delicious ways she could follow through on that threat and memories of every time she already has.  “Promises, promises," he quips, then yelps as she sinks her teeth into his shoulder.

A punishment, a warning, an urgent plea to, “Get on with it.”

He gladly relents, stifling a groan as he pushes into her. She lets out a sharp cry of her own as he fills and stretches her in a way he never has before, at least not for her. Pleasure and pain shoot through him as she arches into him, nails dragging over his back and she is tight and wet and warm and, “God you’re perfect," he mumbles into her shoulder and she whimpers, bucking into him, begging him to move. He does, slowly, gently, drawing the moment out as long as he can.

It won’t take much for her, he knows because the evidence of her last orgasm still flutterers around him, her body so thoroughly teased she’ll be feeling the after effects for days. Maybe he’ll give it a week and then find her at university, show her again all the things he can do to her body, all the ways he can make her scream.

“Oh god, _yes_ ,” she moans beneath him and he’s not sure if it’s an answer to the thoughts he’s muttering into her skin or simply because she’s oh so close. Probably both.

He can’t help the way his hips speed up, wanting more friction, more speed, more everything. He wants to bury himself in her as much as he can because when she’s all around him like this, nothing has ever felt more right. Colors burst behind his eyes, sparks fly across his skin, every nerve ending on fire. It feels like regenerating, except he doesn’t become a new man, but a better one. She makes him better in ways he never imagined. She fills the empty spaces he didn’t know he had.

"Sweetie," she warns. “I'm.. I'm.." He silences her with a kiss, swallowing her keening noises as her body rockets into another fit of pleasure. The new rhythm around him makes his own hips stutter, vision going dark as he climbs higher and higher and all he sees is her, beautiful and blinding, as he tumbles over the edge.

He’s not sure how long he lies on top of her, deep breaths ruffling her hair. But she doesn’t seem to mind, humming contently as her fingers make designs against his back and shoulders. Time stops when they are together. River always has a way of blacking out the world around him, erasing time and sadness and regret until all that’s left is her.

“Did you mean it?” she asks quietly, and he lifts his head to look at her. “When you said that you…” _love me_.

He sits up on his elbows, dropping a kiss to her nose. “I’d have to be a fool not to, wouldn’t I?”

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, I suppose.”

“You’re not my enemy,” he says easily, rolling off her and propping up on an elbow, “Just my assassin.”

She laughs, turning to face him. “You shouldn’t like that in a girl.”

“And why not? I like that you’re clever and sexy and-“

“Dangerous?” She arches a brow and he smiles. Her incredible ability to drag him into life threatening situations with a smile on her lips and twinkle in her eyes might be what he likes about her the most. She keeps up with him in a way no one ever has. It’s humbling and thrilling and he wishes he could make her understand how much power she truly holds over him, his impossible, beautiful, frustrating, amazing wife.

Stroking a wayward curl behind her ear, he whispers, “Especially that.”

They stay like that for hours, talking, laughing, basking in each other’s presence. He could spend eons with only her and warm sheets to keep him company. He could lose himself counting the shades of green that swirl through her eyes. For a while he does, but at some point in the night, between kissing and teasing and storytelling, his eyes must flutter shut because when he wakes up, she's gone.

He can't say he's surprised. River has never been one to stay in one place for long, even when that place is next to him. _“Whenever and wherever you like. But not all the time.”_

Her soul is too wild to be tamed, too bright and beautiful, like a bird that knows it’s meant for more than a cage. He’d think she was a dream if it weren’t for the evidence she leaves behind: scratches on his skin, perfume on pillows, and casually written notes on bedside tables.

_“Thought I’d spare my parents from finding us in bed together. Give them my love, will you? Until the next time, Doctor.”_

She doesn’t know that he can’t, that his days with the Ponds are over. And maybe that’s good, because that means her days with them are just beginning. Somewhere out there in time they are running from Daleks through a museum, and having Christmas dinner, and picnicking by a lake side.

It may only be memories for him, but she has all of that to come.

 

 


End file.
